


Comfort

by illwick



Series: Unwind [33]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom!Sherlock, Dom!John, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kinbaku, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24830014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: Sometimes there is solace in simplicity.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Unwind [33]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/704085
Comments: 66
Kudos: 241





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> And here we finally have the long-anticipated sequel to "Tied Up"! It's not essential to have read that installment to enjoy this one, but I think it does provide some layers of context that can enhance the story.
> 
> Please do heed the tags-- major trigger warnings for references to past drug use/addiction.

It always starts with an innocuous itching at the crook of his left elbow. He’ll be wandering down some darkened corridor in the far reaches of his Mind Palace, or slaving over a complex chemistry equation, or sleeplessly consumed with the promise of a new experiment, or in the frenzied throes of an engrossing case, and suddenly he’ll look down to find this right thumb oscillating compulsively to and fro over the paper-thin skin at the crease just above his forearm. The sensation is the same, whether he’s stroking the area through the fibres of one of his pristine dress shirts, or pressing directly against his own epidermis when he’s in the privacy of his flat. He never remembers starting to do it, but suddenly he’ll look down, and… alas.

The itch spreads. Even when he makes himself stop touching it, he’s powerless to stem the inevitable tide. It spreads to his forearms, his wrists. He feels it between his fingers, behind his knees, even on the tops of his feet and in the creases of his toes. Suddenly, every location into which he ever plunged that _godforsaken_ needle is on _fire,_ and the itch smolders to a _burn._

And suddenly there’s flashbacks of detox. Of the sensation of molten lava pumping from his frantic heart and coursing through his arteries, the chills, the nausea, the _visions._ He remembers with vivid, ultra-lucid clarity looking down to watch in horror as dozens of centipedes burst forth from his Cephalic and Basilic veins, bringing with them a sickening swell of deep red blood through which they scampered and skittered and swam across his skin. He remembers screaming and screaming and no one could help.

And then he _aches._ Oh God, he _aches_ from the absence of it. Like a body searching futilely for its phantom limb, his blood cries out for cocaine, for heroin, for anything, _anything_ to make him feel whole and steady and safe. The world tips on its axis, and he readies for the fall.

His _head_ aches. His head aches, and his joints ache. For fuck’s sake, his damned _teeth_ hurt, and his tongue feels flaccid and swollen and too big for his mouth. His eyes go dry and his lips feel chapped and God, it _hurts,_ it hurts _everywhere,_ in his stomach, yes, but also in a place so deep and buried he doesn’t know where his physical body ends and his-- his _what,_ exactly, his _consciousness,_ his _soul--_ begins?

He blinks and swallows and grips the counter in front of himself as he sways. It’s cold beneath his hands.

He looks down at the countertop he’s clutching: Marbled epoxy resin. Okay. He’s in his lab. Thank God. He’s in his lab in the basement, in 221C, he’s on Baker Street, and that’s good, that’s very good, because it negates the need to navigate himself out of a potentially awkward professional situation. He’s in his own home. And most importantly, he’s a mere two flights of stairs away from John Watson.

He steps back from his laboratory equipment and tries to identify what, exactly, had triggered him.

FInding his own triggers has never been an exact science. Sometimes it’s obvious: Being in the presence of product or junkies, long periods of self-imposed isolation, a Dark Mood that lingers past a day or two. Other times, it will catch him completely off-guard: An appraising glance of an upper-level government official or posh banker _(had Sherlock serviced him for money back in the day?),_ a snide comment from a colleague _(he could usually ignore them, but sometimes, fuck, sometimes it hurt),_ or even something as innocent as an off-handed remark that John would make, not intending to be cruel or judgemental but for some unknown reason it would pierce Sherlock in _just_ the wrong way and he’d find himself staggering beneath the weight of it. 

He’s not sure what caused it this time. He’d been working feverishly on a new experiment for the last several days, so he’s certain his blood sugar is low and his body is sleep-deprived, rendering his brain function less than optimal, sure, of course, that much is obvious, but what sparked the _craving,_ the consuming, compulsive _craving_ that’s currently taken hostage both body and mind?

Was it the blood he was working with? Surely it _shouldn’t_ be, he sees blood all the time. He analyses it at crime scenes, studies it in his lab, views it through the analytic eyes of a scientist. He’s not squeamish or faint of heart in the least. 

But. But he’d dropped a pint bag transporting it from the sink, and suddenly there was so _much_ of it, and he remembered what it was like to lie there in the sticky mess of congealing organic matter on the pavement in front of Bart’s, surrendering his life in exchange for John’s own, and he remembers how fucking _terrified_ he’d been in that moment. Terrified his plan wouldn’t work out. Terrified of losing John. And Lestrade and Mrs. H, of course, but John… _John._

Because he was simultaneously terrified that his plan _would_ work. And he’d be alone, and lose John, the one person who’d ever truly _seen_ him, _understood_ him, made him see his own future as something worth living for. Without John, God, without John, what was _left?_ An endless parade of sober days and sleepless nights? He had his mission, yes, he had Moriarty, but then what, _then what?_ What would become of him if he ever made it off that pavement?

_Ah._ So. That makes sense. He’d been triggered by the pool of spilled blood, sloshing carelessly out of its plastic container across the cement floor of his laboratory in the basement, dredging up memories of the worst day of his life.

Fantastic.

And now he wants a fix so badly he feels sick with the need for it, and the rich smell of iron is drifting up from the crimson pool on the floor and infiltrating his nostrils and for a moment he thinks he might throw up.

But instead he clutches the counter, takes a deep breath in through his mouth, and steels himself with a singular purpose: _Go find John._

He’s nearly halfway up the staircase before he realises he may be going about this all wrong. He has no fucking clue what _day_ it is, let alone what _time_ it is. John could be asleep, or at the surgery. He could be out at the park with Rosie, or tucking her in with a bedtime story. John could be _busy,_ busy doing all the _normal, productive, grown-up things_ that John does to keep their household running, so that Sherlock doesn’t have to. He grips the bannister and sways with guilt.

How dare he burden John like this? John had his _own_ life to live, his _own_ demons to exorcise. He didn’t need the weight of Sherlock’s manic junkie cravings to carry on top of everything else. Sherlock would ruin _everything._

He gives himself a quick mental slap across the face. _NO._ John had reminded him, time and time again, that Sherlock was _never_ a burden to him. Sherlock should _never_ be ashamed to ask John when he needed this. It was John’s _privilege_ to take care of him, the same as it was _Sherlock’s_ privilege to care for John in his own moments of weakness and self-doubt. They were _partners._ This was how it was supposed to work.

He staggers up the remaining stairs and stumbles through the front door, jaw set, gritting his teeth. He just needed to focus a little bit longer; then John would take care of him, get him all sorted out and fixed up, and everything would be _fine._ It would all be fine.

Mercifully, John is in the sitting room, hunched over a pile of papers and slowly pecking away at the keyboard of his laptop. Paying bills, apparently (Sherlock had finally managed to convince John to pay their bills online instead of by cheque like a geriatric luddite, but John still took the process _very_ seriously and insisted the activity be completed in absolute silence). Sherlock hazards a glance out the window and notes that it’s dark outside. So it’s evening, then, and John is home. Excellent.

John glances up, his brow furrowed. “Sherlock? Did you finish your experiment?”

Sherlock blinks back at him. “What time is it?”

John flicks a glance at his watch. “8:30.”

There’s a pregnant pause. “And, um… What day is it?”

John bites back a smile, clearly mildly amused. “Tuesday evening. You alright? You’ve been working too hard, let me get you something to eat…” He rises and slaps his laptop shut, making his way towards the kitchen. “There’s a plate of leftovers in the fridge--”

_“Reichenbach.”_

The guttural consonants of the word catch painfully in Sherlock’s throat, and it emerges as barely more than a low whisper.

But it’s enough. John freezes immediately, and turns to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Reichenbach?”

Sherlock takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I had an accident in the lab, and suddenly I wasn’t feeling well. But. But now I think maybe it’s nothing.” He combs his fingers through his hair, pulling at the roots, grounding himself. He’s overreacting. He’s blown this whole thing out of proportion. “I’ll. I’ll just sit down and have some water. And maybe eat something. My. My blood sugar is low. That’s it. That’s all. Just tired. And overworked. I’ll have some food and get out of your hair.”

To his credit, John doesn’t buy it for a minute. His face expression is the epitome of stern compassion when he issues his order. “I don’t think so. Go shower, Sherlock. I’ll meet you in the bedroom.”

Sherlock hesitates. _Was_ he overreacting? Did he _really_ need this? Or was it just a mild bout of hypoglycemia, coupled with sleep deprivation? He shouldn’t inconvenience--”

_“Sherlock._ Shower. Now. Go.” John’s tone is unmistakable, and it’s almost as if Sherlock’s feet are operating of their own accord as they parade him down the hallway to the bathroom. The next thing he knows, he’s stripping out of his dressing gown and shedding his stale-smelling pajama bottoms and t-shirt on the floor. Christ, when was the last time he’d showered? Sunday? Saturday?

It doesn’t matter. He steps into the shower and the effect is instantaneous; it’s as though the incessant flames licking the insides of his veins have been magically extinguished. He reaches for the soap-- not his usual body wash, no, but the special sandalwood soap that’s usually reserved for after their sessions, when John is washing him clean. The smell is so soothing to him, so intrinsically linked to memories of _safety_ and _relaxation_ and that blissful, post-session _calm._ John had suggested Sherlock occasionally use it at moments like this, outside of their sessions, and Sherlock revels in the cleverness of John’s advice; he was truly a master of self-care.

Sherlock massages his own body thoroughly as the hot water cascades over him, grounding himself in the moment. He’s not high. He’s not on fire. He’s not dying. He’s here. He’s safe. He will be _fine._ John will make sure of it.

He emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, having dried himself sufficiently enough to not make a mess. His skin still feels raw and oversensitive, but his lungs are filling properly again, and the odd dimness has faded from the edges of his vision.

John is waiting for him in the bedroom. He’s changed into loose sweatpants and a soft white t-shirt, and Sherlock fights the urge to stagger over and fling himself pathetically into John’s arms. John looks up and notes Sherlock’s nudity, but he doesn’t mention it.

He gestures calmly towards the bed. “Sit down, love. Let’s get you relaxed.”

Sherlock perches on the edge of the mattress as John rummages about in the closet. Even though Sherlock knows exactly what he’s retrieving, he can still feel his heart hammering in his chest in rapt anticipation. John was going to take _care_ of him. And it was going to be wonderful.

John returns to the bedside, hands full and a soft smile on his face. “Alright, love. Give me your arms.”

As obediently as a child in church, Sherlock presses his palms together, then aligns his forearms until his elbows touch before extending them towards John.

“Very nice, love.” Sherlock expects John to bind him now. But what he doesn’t expect is for John to first take his hands lovingly, tenderly in his own before kissing gently up the crease where Sherlock’s forearms meet.

It’s the only place he has visible track marks. Mercifully, the other injection sites he used to use healed up without much permanent damage, but his forearms and _antecubital fossa_ weren’t so lucky; years of repeated abuse, the scratching during rolling withdrawals, and repeated infection have rendered them marred with pale white track marks. They’re not easy to spot if one isn’t looking, but if one was… well, there they were, plain as day.

Sherlock trembles as John presses his lips resolutely against the scars, his eyes gazing upward and locked with Sherlock’s own. He doesn’t hesitate or pause to calculate; his mouth is speaking words without talking. _I see you. I accept you. I love you. All of you._ Sherlock quakes with the magnitude of it, and reminds himself to breathe.

And then John stands upright and produces a single length of black jute rope. With the effortless precision of someone who has practiced this action dozens of times, he executes a simple yet elegant _kinbaku_ bind spanning from Sherlock’s elbows to his wrists. When he’s finished, Sherlock’s forearms are locked firmly together in front of his chest. If he pays attention, he can feel his pulse from one wrist against the pressure of the other. It’s intoxicating.

John gives him a wane smile. “Good?”

Sherlock nods eagerly. “Good.”

John holds up one of Sherlock’s silk scarves. “Do you want to wear a blindfold tonight?”

Sherlock swallows down the lump in his throat. He’s still feeling overwhelmed, and no matter how many times he and John do this, it’s still difficult for him to ask John for what he wants. He musters another nod. “Yes, please.”

No judgement. “Alright.” Then John is fastening the strip of silk across his eyes, and everything in the world disappears save for one John Watson.

“Sweetheart, we’ll get settled in soon, but I’d like you to drink some water first. Open your mouth for me?”

Sherlock complies without hesitation, and he can feel a straw press against his lips. He closes them and drinks in slow, firm pulls, quenching the thirst that until now he had no idea he’d been feeling.

“Good, good. There we go. Easy.” He drinks his fill then releases the straw, and John ruffles his hair affectionately. “Perfect. Now, I’m just going to get settled, here…” There’s the sound of shuffling, and of the pillows being rearranged, and then the bed dips and John lets out a satisfied sigh before picking up an item off the nightstand. Sherlock can picture it so clearly in his mind: John propping the pillows against the headboard and leaning casually back against them with his latest book in hand, ready to relax with Sherlock. Sherlock smiles to himself at the thought.

“Okay, now. Come here, you.” And with that, John slowly, lovingly guides Sherlock to curl up on his side with his head resting gently in John’s lap. Then John picks up the loose end of the rope from where it dangles around Sherlock’s wrists and wraps it tightly in his own fist before giving it a little pull, applying _just_ enough tension to the binding that Sherlock feels _held_ in place.

John sighs. Sherlock sighs. They lapse into silence and just _stay._

Sherlock can’t see anything. He can’t feel anything except the pressure of the rope around his arms, the way it’s pulled taut by John’s commanding grip. He can feel John’s muscular thigh, soft beneath his cheek as they both relax into the moment. Seconds later, John’s fingers begin to trace slow, lazy patterns across Sherlock’s scalp, and Sherlock hums contentedly, burrowing further against John’s leg.

It’s not sexual. While it’s true Sherlock is completely nude and John is fully clothed, while they most often use _kinbaku_ when they’re engaged in a sexual power exchange, while it’s true John’s fingernails scratch against his scalp with _just_ the right amount of pressure, Sherlock isn’t aroused in the least. _This_ \-- what they’re doing here, tonight-- _this_ is different from all that. This is what they do when Sherlock falls into that Dark place and can no longer see the light. This is how John brings him back.

Time passes. Eventually John’s fingers meander from Sherlock’s hair to trace the plane of his forehead, the bridge of his nose. They stroke over his cheekbone and across the angle of his jaw, down to skitter across the column of his neck before dipping playfully into the quirks of his clavicles, then back up to map the edges of his lips. Sherlock takes a playful nip before flicking his tongue out to lap against the pad of John’s pointer finger. John, to his credit, gets Sherlock’s drift and lets him suckle the digit fully into his mouth.

John’s finger tastes like salt and soap. It rests perfectly on Sherlock’s tongue and Sherlock revels in the sensation. He cannot see, he cannot move, but he can _taste,_ and John’s skin tastes wonderful. Always has.

After an indiscernible length of time, John replaces his finger with his dog tags in Sherlock’s mouth (perhaps to turn the page of his book, or scratch an itch, or brush an errant hair out of his eyes), but Sherlock barely notices. He’s drifting too far away to care.

He thinks about how he must look, knees bent, head bowed, palms pressed devoutly together as if in prayer. He imagines he’s a pilgrim worshiping at the altar of his deity, the only name his brain can recall when he’s like this: _John John John_

Surely John would hate that if he knew that’s what Sherlock was imagining. But Sherlock doesn’t care. Because all he wants in this mortal world is to lie here and worship John Watson with his heart, his body, his very soul, because that is the love that has _freed_ him, and that will _always_ be enough.

Everything is quiet and calm. Sherlock coasts serenely on rolling waves of sound: of John’s steady breathing, of the ticking of the clock in the corner, of the distant sound of traffic muffled by the window panes. His mind feels dark and silent. His body feels empty and relaxed. It’s nothing and everything all at once, and he begins to float.

Time doesn’t mean much when they’re like this, but Sherlock’s fairly certain several thousand years have passed before he feels John’s leg shift slightly beneath his cheek. Then the blindfold falls away from his eyes and he’s blinking them open to the beatific vision of John’s face smiling down at him.

“Hi there.” He gently pulls his dog tags from between Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock smiles back. “Hi.” He snuggles his head firmly against John’s thigh and sighs, reveling in his bliss.

John’s fingers return to Sherlock’s hair, combing through his locks with a reverent grace that feels sweet and steadying. “Are you ready for some sleep?”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t _want_ this to be over so soon (though for all he knows, they could have been at it for hours, days, weeks, a lifetime could have passed while he drifted in that gentle press of darkness), but he regretfully acknowledges that his arms are feeling a bit stiff, and he’d quite like to stretch out a bit. “I suppose.”

“Alright, then. Up you get.” John’s strong arms surround him and pull him up into a sitting position, and Sherlock sways a bit as he acclimates to reality. “Feeling okay?”

“Mmm.” He gives another nod and rolls his neck luxuriously. “Better than okay. Good. I feel good. Thank you.”

John leans forward and presses a chaste kiss against his forehead. “Of course, love. Here, let me untie these…”

Sherlock extends his arms and John unties the knots, pulling the rope away in a slow, methodical unravelling. Sherlock focuses on keeping his breathing steady, and it seems to work; he doesn’t feel unmoored anymore. He feels peaceful.

John fetches the arnica cream from the nightstand and proceeds to massage Sherlock’s arms, wrists, and hands, working the muscles and tendons in slow, careful strokes as they face each other cross-legged on the bed. Sherlock hums contentedly as he watches John work him over, and John gives him a soft, sweet smile in return. The exchange is so simple but somehow so intimate, Sherlock can feel his heart fluttering against his ribcage in response. It’s _wonderful._

“There we go, love. Good?”

“Perfect.” And he can’t stop himself any longer; he wraps one hand around the back of John’s neck, and leans in for a slow, luxurious kiss.

John lets out an initial hum of surprise, but quickly returns his affections. They kiss and kiss, Sherlock deepening the sentiment with a sweep of his tongue as he brings his arms up to drape over John’s shoulders, pulling him ever closer.

It’s not always sexual when they finish a session like the one they’ve just had. In fact, it’s quite rare-- Sherlock generally needs to sleep once his Dark Mood has lifted; he’s usually in need of a long respite. But tonight, he doesn’t feel the sweeping waves of exhaustion that often overtake him once they’re finished. Instead, he just wants to be _close_ to John, as close as he can be, and affirm this perfect thing they share between them.

John’s the first to break from the increasingly heated kisses, his cheeks flushed and lips moist from their affections. “Do you… do you want…” He’s suddenly uncharacteristically hesitant, and Sherlock chuckles in response. John’s usually anything _but_ demure when it comes to asking for what he wants, but Sherlock knows he’s treading lightly here in the interest of respecting Sherlock’s boundaries.

“I want to have sex, please.” Sherlock spares him the nuances, and John giggles as a mingled expression of relief and amusement play across the features of his face.

“Is that so?” John leans in closer, placing one hand gently on Sherlock’s waist while the other cradles the back of his neck to ease him down onto the pillows. Sherlock melts into the mattress as John hovers dotingly above him. “What kind of sex, hmmm?”

Sherlock tips his head back and sighs as John begins to place a series of soft, tender kisses up the column of his throat. “The kind where you put your cock in me, please.” John gives his neck a hard _suck_ in response, and Sherlock’s toes curl in anticipation.

“Mmm. _Where_ in you would you like my cock?” John murmurs the question into the sloping curve of Sherlock’s collarbone, and Sherlock bites his own lip in response.

“My arse.” Just _saying_ it makes him feel _achingly_ aroused. “I want… mmm, _God, John,_ I want… nnngh, your cock in my arse, please.” John’s maneuvered himself lower to kiss and lick across the planes of Sherlock’s chest, lapping against his sternum before turning his attention to Sherlock’s rapidly hardening nipples.

“Mmmmmm.” John moans deviously against the peaked bud in his mouth, and Sherlock’s heels dig into the mattress as his legs splay outwards and his fingers tangle into the soft fabric of the duvet.

“God, John…” Sherlock’s eyes roll back in his head as John’s left hand makes its way to Sherlock’s cock and strokes him quickly to full hardness.

Sherlock doesn’t even notice when John reaches over to grab the lube. All he knows is that somehow John’s fingers are suddenly slippery-slick and drifting lower to fondle his sac before venturing lower still. Sherlock mewls and pulls his thighs back towards his chest to allow John easier access. 

John’s resumed kissing up the side of his neck as his fingers trace Sherlock’s opening. Sherlock’s shaking from the _need_ of it, but John doesn’t rush; he takes his time, petting his furled opening with short, light strokes, prepping the nerves for the upcoming onslaught of sensation. Sherlock can _feel_ his hole fluttering in response, can feel the familiar _clench_ inside of himself as his body prepares for penetration. By the time John dips just the tip of his pointer finger inside, Sherlock is so damn _ready_ he can’t bite back the moan that escapes from his throat.

John just snickers (manipulative, teasing _git)_ before tipping his head up to nibble Sherlock’s earlobe as he slides his finger fully in. Stars explode behind Sherlock’s eyelids as his pelvis tips up and his spine _curls_ into the pressure.

God, sometimes his transport is a miracle. He never used to think so, not until he met John. He’d had sexual encounters before then, of course, but that was always simply because his transport was being a deep _inconvenience_ with its demands for primitive biological needs. 

But then he met John, and learned what _apparently_ his transport had been trying to get from him all along: He wanted to be _fucked. Mounted, penetrated, shagged, screwed,_ and _ridden_ in every conceivable position in every conceivable fashion from every conceivable angle. And true, he did enjoy the myriad of other sexual activities he and John engaged in together, but he’d always found it beautifully obvious that _this_ was what his transport had been craving all along, and John Watson was the only man brilliant and bold enough to deliver it.

And for that, Sherlock is eternally grateful. How he ever got along without taking John’s cock on a regular basis is now a source of deep confusion and regret for him. And luckily, John is deeply obliging on that front, and gives it to Sherlock (almost) as often as he needs.

Because Sherlock needs this. He needs the deliciously delicate brush of John’s nimble digits against that sweet spot buried deep inside of him, needs that steady pressure of the heel of John’s hand pressing against his perineum as he fingerfucks him in quick, solid, demanding strokes. Needs that sensation of letting John _inside_ him, of taking John’s body _into_ his, the greatest surrender his greedy transport and prodigious mind have ever known.

“Nngh! Ha! Ha! Ah! Ah! Ah, ngh, ngh, ahhh!” John’s got three fingers in him now and is pistoning them in and out, coupling the movement with a well-practiced twist of his wrist and spread of his digits on the outstroke, prepping Sherlock for what’s to come. His lips and teeth are hard at work on the side of Sherlock’s neck, intent on leaving behind what’s sure to be a dazzling series of bruises in the morning. Sherlock finally has the presence of mind to wrap his hand around his own cock, stroking himself in short, sharp tugs in tandem with John’s ministrations.

Finally, _finally,_ John’s hand stills and he detaches his mouth from Sherlock’s blisteringly sensitive flesh. He props himself up on his forearm and brushes the hair away from Sherlock’s face with the fingers not currently buried to the hilt inside him.

“How you doing, love? You feel pretty ready.” He twists his wrist, and the sensation ricochets from Sherlock’s channel straight up his spine.

“Good, John, I’m good, I’m ready.” He’s breathing hard already, panting like he’s just run a footrace, but the end of his affirmation is clipped by a light cry as John spreads his fingers inside him, giving him a glorious stretch that _burns._

“Mmm, alright. Let’s get you all set to take me.” John’s fingers disappear (Sherlock shivers at the almost overwhelming feeling of openness, the liquid of the lube unnaturally cool between his cheeks) as John pulls himself up onto his knees, shucking his shirt and then shimmying out of his sweatpants as he goes. Then he grabs the spare pillow and taps Sherlock’s hip; Sherlock amicably raises his pelvis off the bed, and John positions the pillow behind his lower back to give himself better access before shuffling to position himself between Sherlock’s willingly-spread legs. Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs.

To his surprise, the next sensation he feels isn’t the blunt head of John’s cock forcing him open. Instead, it’s the sweet press of John’s lips against his left wrist. And up his left forearm, to his elbow, before repeating the pattern on the right. The kisses are soft, slow, and deliberate, and Sherlock soon finds himself trembling even harder than before.

“Shhh, just relax, love…” John’s voice is low and soft, and his strong hands make their way to Sherlock’s thighs, issuing soothing strokes over the quivering muscles. Sherlock blinks his eyes back open just in time to watch as John runs his fingers firmly up his calves before coming to rest on Sherlock’s ankles, which he cradles in his palms as his thumbs trace mesmerizing circles over his _medial malleolus._ Their eyes meet, and the corners of John’s lips quirk up as he leans down to kiss along the creases at the backs of Sherlock’s knees one by one.

_He was kissing Sherlock’s injection points._ The thought makes Sherlock’s chest go tight with a confounding combination of mortification and relief. Though he doesn’t have visible marks where he used to inject his legs or feet, John’s no idiot; he’s a doctor, he surely _knows_ every trick in a junkie’s book for finding a usable vein. And God, had Sherlock overused his veins, but here’s John, _kissing_ them, kissing the backs of his knees and down his calves, then working his way across the tops of his feet. Sherlock shudders at the memory of one blurry night when a sloppy injection nicked his _dorsalis pedis_ artery and he’d bled so much he thought he was going to pass out-- but John’s lips are working _magic,_ and suddenly the memory is replaced with nothing but _sensation,_ the feeling of John’s lips against his tender skin. 

He gazes down at John through glassy eyes, breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches. John gives him a sly grin as he plants a particularly wet kiss on the arch of Sherlock’s left foot, one of the few places he’s been revealed to be _(infuriatingly)_ ticklish. His foot jerks, an involuntary reflex, but John is ready and he tightens his grip on Sherlock’s ankle just in time to hold him in place, then playfully nips the pad of his big toe with a self-satisfied chuckle. Sherlock, for his part, has never found anything particularly erotic about feet, but watching John worship his like he’s some sort of supine deity is… rather unobjectionable indeed.

It’s only when Sherlock is fairly certain that he’s about to lose his damn mind that John finally relents. He relinquishes his grip on Sherlock’s right ankle, propping it up on his shoulder, then reaches down to steady his cock and guide it to Sherlock’s eager hole. The slick press, the stretch, the indescribable _burn_ of penetration; Sherlock gasps and arches and his hands fly up to grip the headboard, desperately seeking to ground himself as his transport molds itself to take John Watson as deep inside of him as he can go. John’s eyes roll back and he moans, hungry and wanton, as he presses his pelvis forward to sink completely into Sherlock’s tight, wet heat.

John seats himself fully and drags in several long, deliberate breaths before he finally opens his eyes to observe the man impaled beneath him. Sherlock swallows wetly and squirms a bit, acclimating to the sensation of John’s unrelenting hardness breaching him so relentlessly. He can feel his sphincter spasm in short, quick succession around the intrusion, and he reminds himself to _relax_ to ease John’s way. Luckily his transport complies, and soon he and John and rocking ever so slightly in tandem, reveling in their joining.

Sherlock doesn’t realise he’s still shaking until suddenly, John’s reaching forward and prying his white-knuckled grip away from the headboard.

“Shhhh, sweetheart, shhhh, just relax, come here, let me take care of you…” John’s murmurs are soft but stern, and Sherlock feels him entwining their fingers before pressing Sherlock’s hands down firmly into the mattress beside his head, grounding him. And _oh God,_ that’s better. Yes, yes, that’s better…

John begins to move, and Sherlock surrenders.

John anchors him. And Sherlock’s glad for it, because if John didn’t, Sherlock’s fairly certain he would defy all laws of gravity and simply fall off the face of the earth and into the sky and then on into the infinite expanse of darkness that lies beyond. He would be lost forever, floating away into the absence of matter, alone and afraid, with nothing but his fickle mind and wretched transport for company.

But instead, John has pinned down his wrists with his hands to hold him in place. And John’s impaled him with his cock, he’s put _his_ transport _inside_ Sherlock’s transport to hold him steady, and Sherlock can imagine no other outcome than to comply. He’s so grateful in moments like this one; it’s inconceivable to him that any other being can make him feel so intrinsically _human_ besides John. And now, as he feels John’s prick fucking in and out of his body in firm, deep strokes, he allows himself to believe that’s the only thing pinning him to earth.

Sherlock isn’t thinking very clearly anymore. He’s able to distantly observe and reflect upon certain things, like how lovely John’s biceps look as they flex in time with this thrusts. He likes how small his ankles look perched on John’s broad shoulders. John’s face is beautiful, too-- it always is, but there’s a little crease between his eyebrows that makes him look like he’s deep in concentration despite the fact that they’re engaging in what may be the most primitive act known to the mammalian species. Furthermore, there’s a tiny line on the left side of John’s mouth that Sherlock has mentally deemed his _don’t bother me, I’m fucking_ line, as it _only_ appears when he’s balls-deep in Sherlock and singularly focused on copulating with him. It’s a new arrival on John’s face (along with plenty of other, non-sex related lines), but Sherlock likes this one best because it’s his little secret-- he’d never tell John about it because John is weirdly self-conscious about aging and he’d hate the fact that he has a new wrinkle, even if it’s a wrinkle he earned by fucking Sherlock into oblivion on a regular basis for the better part of a decade.

“Oh-- _Oh!”_ John’s hips stutter and his eyes widen a bit as his thrusts turn faster and less measured. Sherlock gasps and rocks his pelvis back even further, bending himself nearly in half to allow John’s strokes to deepen. John’s hands grip Sherlock’s tightly in his own, and Sherlock watches in delight as a drop of sweat trickles down the side of John’s neck and pools in the dip of his throat. For a moment he fights the urge, but what the hell-- he lifts his head up to lick it away, eliciting another shout of ecstasy from John.

“God-- ngh! Ngh! Ngh! Ohhh…” John’s forehead drops down to rest against Sherlock’s own, and Sherlock can hear the familiar sound of his feet scrabbling for purchase against the linen sheets. He’s pistoning into Sherlock frantically now, so hard and fast that Sherlock swears he can feel the burst of pressure of each stroke in the back of his own throat, the force of his rocking so hard he can barely breathe.

John’s cock isn’t hitting his prostate directly, not quite, but it’s a deep and unrelenting pressure against his sweet spot that makes him feel agonisingly aroused without tipping him over the edge. He can feel his own cocked trapped between John’s abdomen and his own, slick with precome as it twitches helplessly against John’s flexing abs.

“Hrngh… Hrngh, ngh, ngh, ngh-- oh! Oh! _Oh! OH! OH! OH!”_

John’s lost control entirely now, and Sherlock cries out helpless beneath the onslaught of his mounting. _This_ is the moment he loves best-- when John can’t hold back any longer, can’t control himself, he _has_ to come in Sherlock, _has_ to have him, _has_ to own him… 

There’s pain, yes, a distant, pulsing ache where his arse is being rather savagely ravaged. But it is utterly eclipsed by the pleasure of being owned by John Watson.

There’s a breath, a pause, a hitch, then John is crying out, shouting with pleasure as he empties himself. Sherlock can feel every pulse of it; his passage is clamped down so tightly around John’s cock that every twitch and spasm seems to permeate the walls of his clenching channel and reverberate up his spine. Sherlock wails with the ecstasy of it all, the unrivaled euphoria of being so deliciously claimed. His vocalisation seems to spurn John on, and John suddenly rights himself, sitting up on his knees to grip Sherlock firmly around the waist as he delivers a series of gradually weakening thrusts as the aftershocks work their way out through his cock.

Eventually the thrusts recede, giving way to slow, languid circles of John’s hips. John’s hands make their way back up Sherlock’s legs to gently grip his ankles, pulling his legs wide apart as he grinds the last shivering remnants of his pleasure into Sherlock’s lax body. Sherlock for his part is too dumbstruck to do much of anything besides lie still and let John have his way.

At long last, John’s hips still. His eyes flutter open, and he grins down at Sherlock with a winning smile, forehead glistening with exertion, a manic look of satisfaction in his eyes.

“Holy _shit,_ love. You feel so good, so good…” He releases his hold of Sherlock’s ankles to let his legs splay out to the sides as he leans down and kisses Sherlock passionately on the lips.

But he doesn’t dally. The moment he pulls his hips back to withdraw his cock, he stuffs Sherlock’s opening with three slick fingers before crouching back to lower his head and suck Sherlock’s cock into his mouth in one resolute slide.

It’s heaven. Not only does John proceed to deliver an obscenely messy blow-job (taking extra time to lave wet, luscious kisses up and down the sides of his member over and over again before sucking him down and swallowing in delirium-inducing pulses, then popping off to lick Sherlock’s balls into his mouth one at a time before pulling away to start the whole cycle over again), but he continues to fingerfuck Sherlock with ruthless intensity throughout. Sherlock barely even registers it when he manages to slip a fourth finger inside, but the sharp pleasure of John’s thumb issuing some deliberately-placed pressure against his perineum is enough to take him to the brink.

“Oh-- God, John, I’m going to-- I’m going to-- oh! John!”

And with that, John sits back on his heels and pistons his fingers as hard and fast as he can directly against Sherlock’s prostate, while his free hand flies up to jerk his cock in fast, rough strokes.

Sherlock screams as he comes. It feels so good it’s painful, the release such a relief that it’s as if something at the very core of his being is shattering, breaking into a million tiny pieces and dissolving in a dizzying expulsion of sweat and semen. John works him through it with effortless precision, the fingers in his arse just the right side of brutal, the fingers around his cock just dry enough to make it burn. John carries on working him over for nearly half a minute after Sherlock’s orgasm has receded, knowing how much Sherlock revels in overstimulation, and Sherlock writhes and wails as his cock softens and his hole dilates in the wake of his rapture.

John cleans them up with a flannel before rolling Sherlock’s wrung-out body unceremoniously off the duvet so he can pull it over them both. Then he takes Sherlock into his arms and holds him, strong and sure.

“I’m safe. You’re safe. We’re safe.” 

John whispers those words in Sherlock’s ear. It’s a phrase that their counsellor, Anthony, had recommended that they decide on as their personal affirmation; a secret matra just the two of them would share. _I love you_ is too common and too often misused, Anthony explained. _You’re okay_ is too vague. _You’re fine_ is too dismissive. So what is it that they wanted to be? _Safe._ They’d said the word in exact unison, much to Anthony’s surprise. But Sherlock wasn’t surprised. It was all he and John had ever wanted.

To be safe, here, with each other. Safe from foes and archrivals and nemesis, of course. But also safe from society, from judgement, from shame. And most of all, safe from themselves, and all the demons that haunted them for far, far too long.

“We’re safe,” Sherlock whispers back. And he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like the world's gone mad and that we could all use a little story about care, comfort, and compassion. Stay safe out there, lovelies.
> 
> And leave comments! I love hearing from you, especially as this quarantine wears on (and on and ON).


End file.
